Nick shut the door, keeping the new-paint smell in and keeping out the less pleasant odors that stank up the rest of the house. Two bright-orange lockers functioned as Nick’s bureau, fitting neatly against the right-hand wall. He kicked off his high-tops and walked across the pasta-free vinyl flooring.
Darcy unlaced her sneakers, following his lead. She had to sit down and touch the comforter’s nub and process this new information about Nick. She got it. Nick didn’t only want to show her his bedroom. He wanted to show her who he was, separate and distinct from his less than stellar family unit. Nick made a selection from the iPod docked on his makeshift bureau, and the music played.
“Oh, I have that album. I like it.” She adored the scary-cool Nickelback cover art, too. An aquamarine eye was crying, shedding molten metal tears. She knew the drill: boys cried bullets. She appreciated the music better after adding the lyrics to her MP3 library and studying every word. Songs about family dysfunction and desperation, losing hope and smoking dope.
Nick crawled over the bed to open one of the windows the rest of the way. The rain upstaged the rock music—pelting the tin roof, rushing across the gutter, and surging into the rain barrel she’d noticed by the front porch.
Nick nestled in beside her. “First song’s my favorite. Reminds me what I need to do if my dad ever breaks the restraining order Mom took out against him. Reminds me of when I saw my parents fighting for the first time.”
The song “Never Again” was about a guy who beat his wife. Until the day the wife decided she’d had enough. Then she shot him.
Darcy’s throat went dry, like when she’d climbed a tree, looked down, and the earth tilted on its axis. “What do you need to do, Nick?”
When she caught his gaze, he flashed his trademark dimpled grin, but his eyes darkened. “Kick his ass, of course. Thought you knew the song.” He laughed—a sharp burst that sounded forced—and then jumped up and turned up the volume.
The kid in the song, the son of the wife beater, did want to kick his father’s ass. True.
Daddy used to joke about killing himself, or at least claimed he was joking. Also true.
Nick snuggled back next to her and curled an arm around her shoulder, so gentle. He swallowed, and sadness edged his eyes. Sad enough to kick some serious ass, but her Nick wasn’t a killer. “So what was I saying?”
“About your parents fighting?” she said. “About your dad?”
Her parents had never really argued. Not unless you counted the hushed discussions that trickled through closed doors. Always about the meds, always about why Daddy needed to go back on lithium. Mom could’ve played a recording of the same lecture every few months. Daddy never listened to her medically sound reasoning. Her father should’ve taken a restraining order out against himself.
Thinking about her dad brought up a clear image, as if Daddy were in the room with her.
Nick shook his head, stared at her lips. “Uh-uh. Before that.” He tickled her waist, coming at her with both hands until she’d scrambled backward against the pine headboard.
Darcy swiped at her eyes, pretended the tears were from laughing instead of crying. “When I was little, I liked to play Doctor Darcy and bring my dad Band-Aids for his forehead. Sometimes, when he was having one of his moods, he’d bang his head against the wall until it bled. I was, like, four.” Nick stroked her hand, and the Daddy image faded, blissfully faded, then disappeared entirely. To her surprise, Nick looked her in the eye, his expression neutral. “How old were you when you first saw your parents fighting?” she asked.
“It doesn’t matter, Darce. I don’t exactly feel like talking right now. Know what I mean?” He hugged her, kissing her neck. Nick’s ear peeked through strands of glossy blond hair—so cute—and she kissed the bare lobe, then whispered, “It matters.”
He untangled himself from her, stood up, sat back down. When she rubbed his back, he gifted her with a Nick smile she’d never seen before, the corners of both his eyes and mouth turned down this time. He cocked his head and shrugged like a little boy, and she imagined him as a towhead in fire engine–red footed pajamas. She couldn’t see inside of him, but she sensed he was about to give her a box seat.
“I was maybe five or six, when I first saw my parents going at it.” He paused and shook his head. “You don’t want to hear this.”
“Yes. I do.” She stroked his hand, taking the lead, and he followed her to the headboard, as far back as they could go.
Nick closed his eyes most of the way, either to make remembering easier or avoid embarrassment. “It was the middle of the night, and I was thirsty. I remember thinking I can hear my parents talking, so I’ll go ask for a glass of water. What’s the harm in that? I tiptoed up to my bedroom door, and by the time I got there, they were already going at it. Not really yelling but talking really loud. Well, at least he was. I couldn’t even hear her voice. She was doing her thing. You know, talking real soft, practically whispering, so she didn’t make him any angrier. Don’t want to make the big guy angry.” He stopped talking and took a labored breath.
“It’s okay, Nick. Go on.”
Another breath, and he squeezed her hand. “He was right in her face, and she couldn’t just walk away. She couldn’t get away ’cause that would’ve made him angry, too.
Everything
pissed him off. Mom always left my door open a bit so she could hear me if I needed her, you know, and I was peeking through the crack.” Nick sat up straighter, opening his eyes all the way. “I swear I don’t know what she said to him, probably didn’t even matter what it was. He was just aching for a fight. He . . . he got even closer, yelled point-blank, and this part I heard. She said two words: ‘Nicky’s sleeping.’ And just like that he threw her onto the floor, started whaling on her like she was a punching bag. Just whaling the shit out of her.” Nick stared straight ahead, no doubt revisiting the scene that often tormented him.
Darcy could relate. “And he’s not even around to answer your questions,” she said. “That’s the worst part. Like, how could he do what he did? Why couldn’t he stop himself? He was supposed to be the grown-up, so why didn’t he
act
like one and get it together?” Their Daddy stories weren’t exactly alike but close enough for her to sympathize. Fathers were supposed to protect you, not kill themselves, not beat on your mother. Why did everything have to hurt when she just wanted to feel good?
They turned toward each other, and Nick leaned in only partway for a kiss, making her come the rest of the way to him. She slid down onto the bed pillows, and he edged down beside her. The rain was pounding so hard, drowning out her thoughts.
She just wanted to feel good.
Under the covers, warmth and darkness. The delicious closeness of Nick’s body pressing against her and producing the kind of sparks she’d never before let a boy ignite. Periwinkle splotches beneath her closed lids mingled with orangey-red orbs of light.
Nick unbuttoned her jeans and slipped his hand into her underwear. No way she could deny how close she was to going over the top. She took her mouth off his, and he started in on her neck. “Nick, stop.”
He glanced up at her. “It’s okay, babe. I’ve got protection.” He removed his expert hand, kicked his pants and briefs off from around his ankles, and then lunged to extract a half-empty box of condoms from under-bed storage.
Nick calling her
babe
should’ve cooled her down. The half-empty box of condoms should’ve sent up warning flares: call off the misguided mission. But amazingly, energy still sped through her body, seeking an exit route.
She just wanted to feel good.
He crawled back toward her, squashed red box in hand, massive smile on his face. She almost hated to tell him. “Nick, I’m a virgin.”
Two-second delay before the big horny grin faded, then returned. “Never kid a kidder, Darce.” He knelt with one knee on the mattress and pulled his T-shirts up over his head, making sure she reviewed a whole lot more than just his unbelievable cut abs.
“I’m completely serious. I’ve never even let a boy touch me until you.” She’d never seen a boy without his clothes on, either. Accidentally walking in on her brother didn’t count. She was still wearing her underwear and T-shirt, but she shivered. She pulled the covers over her legs and waited for Nick’s reaction.
“The hottest girl in school is a virgin.” Nick wouldn’t stop smiling, as if he wasn’t going to dump her and tell all the boys at school what they’d done.
This time would be the worst. This time the story would be true. This time she’d hoped Nick was different and really liked her.
She got up on shaky legs, looked away from him, and started pulling up her jeans bunched around one ankle like a little girl’s skip-along toy. She could walk part of the way home, and then hitch. Hitching wasn’t so bad; she and Heather had thumbed rides all over southern New Hampshire last summer.
“Don’t go!” Nick grabbed her hand. “I’ll take care of you.”
Her near-sleepless night must’ve turned her goofy. For a second there, she thought Nick was proposing marriage, of all ridiculous things, instead of sex. Despite her best efforts, she couldn’t prevent the giggles from trickling from her belly and bursting through her mouth. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” She let go of Nick’s hand and left the poor guy waiting for her fit of laughter to come to a close. The poor
naked
guy. She fell back onto the bed with her jeans still dangling.
No use. Every time she looked at Nick, she cracked up again. “It’s not you, I swear!” Darcy turned toward the window. She tried listening to the swish of rain and the background rock music, tried focusing on the subtle shades of blue in the window’s denim curtains. She shoved her face into Nick’s pillow, but the sound of muffled laughter only made her hysterics grow.
The mattress shifted, and Nick rubbed between her shoulder blades, trying to calm her down. “Heard somewhere that people laugh when they’re nervous. Guess it’s true ’cause the day my old principal found a dime bag of pot on me, I cracked up in the guy’s face. Told him, ‘No, really. I’ve got no clue where the crap came from, never seen it before.’ Even asked him what the stuff was in the bag. Was it, like, fertilizer or something?” Nick lay down behind her and whispered in her ear. “You don’t have to be scared, but it’s okay if you are. It’s okay.”
Nick really got her. Darcy rolled back around, smiling. “You are so smart, maybe even a genius.” No, seriously, she wasn’t trying to be . . . what was that word?
Facetious.
Only her real friends had the guts to tell her the truth about herself. First Heather, then Cam, and now Nick.
Darcy propped on one elbow, working hard not to laugh despite her fluttering belly. She swiped a hand in front of her face and pantomimed pulling her expression rigid. “I want you to know that I’m not being facetious.”
“Okay.” Nick removed her dangling jeans and tossed them across the room. He reclined next to her and caressed her from ankle to waist, until his fingers teased her belly. “You’re not whatever it was you just said.” He rubbed across the outside of her underwear, paused his hand right where she liked it. “So do you want to do it?” His hand started moving again, and he brushed his lips against hers, like the flick of a feather, leaving her in need of more intense pressure.
“Wait a minute.” Darcy sat up, wrestled her tight-fitting T-shirt over her head. Her mother’s many warnings about sex floated through her mind.
She could get pregnant. Even the health teacher at school had to admit that when used properly, condoms prevented pregnancy ninety-nine percent of the time. Wicked good odds, as far as she was concerned.
Disease. Condoms once again galloped to the rescue, brave little knights in red capes.
A broken heart. This last warning almost launched a fresh barrage of giggles. Maybe sleep deprivation made her fearless; her legs weren’t even shaking anymore, at least not in a bad way. Maybe the last year had toughened her up, maybe her entire crazy life had led her to this place where she couldn’t imagine any boy breaking her heart. What hurt could possibly compare to Daddy’s suicide?
Just the same, something was missing.
She’d imagined doing it for the first time so often, maybe she’d ruined it. Nothing could compare to the fantasy movies in her mind.
But she still wanted to feel good. “Do you think we could—” She paused, stalling to gain courage. “Do you think we could maybe just touch a little?”
Now it was Nick’s turn to laugh. “I think we could touch one hell of a lot.”
She unhooked her bra and slipped it off before she could change her mind, her heart pounding louder than rainfall on the tin roof. Nick’s stare revved up the thudding, making her wonder whether fifteen-year-olds could suffer heart attacks. He held back the bedding, and she eased into their cozy bed cave. Only the swatch of her cotton underpants remained between them, a just for show boundary. Nick yanked her underwear down over her hips, and she pushed them off the rest of the way, making her decision final.
What did Nick think he was doing to her boobs, squishing them like glitter-filled gel toys? He stopped kissing her. “Darcy, I’m sorry, but I can’t hold on. You’re gonna have to finish me fast.” Finish? Back up. She’d just gotten started.
He took her hand, demonstrating exactly what he’d meant by
fast
. The way he drove should’ve clued her in; the kid had a need for speed. Okay, this was both boring and gross. She counted out two sets of twenty, and her arm tired.
“Don’t stop.” Nick scrunched up his face and gave a series of embarrassing wounded sounds, losing it all over her hands, losing way more than the well-directed spoonful she’d imagined.
Yuck! Talk about disgusting!
Darcy wiped her hands on his sheets, depositing the slime all over his nice clean bedding.
The rain was still pelting the roof and Nickelback was still trickling through the speakers, although she didn’t much care about the lyrics. Nick sprawled across the bed, eyes shut and mouth slightly open, as if he’d exhausted himself when she’d done all the work. She touched his arm and smiled when he twitched in his sleep.